


Fade

by derangedfangirl



Series: Fade [1]
Category: Thunderheart (1992)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-28 22:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derangedfangirl/pseuds/derangedfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walter listens to the low murmur of his voice through the door, his familiar baritone, and a knot grows in the pit of his stomach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecarlysutra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/gifts).



It’s been maybe 8 or 9 months since Ray came back to the Rez, back to Walter, when the Federal Bureau of Fucking Up Walter’s Life rings them up, looking for their liaison.  Ray’s out running, a _wasichu_ inclination that Walter, who runs exclusively when chased, has never understood.

The snide, stiff sounding sumbitch on the other end of the line asks (orders, more like) Crow Horse to “Have Mr. Lee-voy call us back ASAP.” "

He’s always thought people who spoke in acronyms were dickheads. Still, he figures Ray would probably get a stick up his ass over Walter not passing along a message from his _other_ bosses, so when Ray finally gets back, t-shirt sticking to him like a second skin, sweat dripping off of his face and turning his pale hair a dark burnished gold, a wide grin splitting his face (because even though Ray can be wound kinda tight, he revels in being in his body, using it, pure physical sensation of burning muscles and blood pounding in his veins)  Crow Horse… Well, truth be told, Crow Horse gets completely distracted by Ray’s flushed face and loose-limbed sprawl.  Ray only sprawls like that after a good run, after he’s pounded his muscles into submission, or after Crow Horse has pounded _him_ into submission. 

But later, as they’re sprawled all over each other, each jockying for the best position in front of Walter’s fan and respite from the heat while Walter pelts Ray lazily with ice cubes, Walter remembers the call.  “-Said to have you call ‘Mackenzie’ immediately.  That a first name or a last name, you think?” 

But Ray doesn’t laugh- in fact, the soft, sleepy little smile that had made its home on his lips had disappeared, and the finger that had been twisting Crow Horse’s hair around it had gone still.

“Mackenzie?  You sure about that, Walter?” asks sharply, and his voice is low, far too serious for what’s probably just a routine check in or something, but, then again, Ray’s jumpy where the FBI’s concerned these days.  Crow Horse nods, brow furrowing.  Ray’s tongue dances against the back of his lip, then his jaw clenches, and Walter knows Ray’s oral tics well enough now to see that he’s pissed off and nervous and sick all in one. 

Ray pushes himself up, slow and tired, like he’s just aged 20 years, scooting to the edge of the bed, and stares at the wall blankly.

“Well?”  Crow Horse is a perceptive man, but he’s not a fucking mind reader.  He rests a hand on one lightly freckled shoulder.

“Mac is- was- my…” Ray pauses, and Walter can see a muscle jumping in his jaw, “ _handler,_ I guess, would be the best word for it.  When I went undercover.” 

“…And he ain’t calling to have a chat about the wife and kids, eyah?”

Moonlight makes Ray’s pale eyes even paler, and Walter knows the answer before he even moves.  His mouth goes dry.  Ray gets out of bed, socked feet padding lightly against the floorboards as he tugs on a discarded pair of boxers, and he leaves the room. 

  
Walter listens to the low murmur of his voice through the door, his familiar baritone, and a knot grows in the pit of his stomach.

Three days later, Ray is gone.

The first couple of weeks are surreal.  It’s almost like Ray’s disappeared off the face of the planet entirely, like he’s died or something (and Crow Horse cuts that train of thought off immediately whenever it bubbles up, like a nasty infection, since it’s all too real a possibility).  Then he’ll open up the closet and see Ray’s too-expensive running shoes that he’d made fun of him for not two weeks ago, or Ray’s towel still hanging on the rack in the bathroom ‘cuz he hasn’t gotten around to washing it yet, and his throat will tighten.

Walter’s not some goddamn teenage schoolgirl.  It’s not so much the separation, or even the complete radio silence (although that’s hard enough) as the fact that he doesn’t even know when Ray will be able to come back home, when he’ll be able to hear him laugh or bitch about Crow Horse’s eating habits.  It’s not knowing what condition he’ll be in when he gets there.   
He feels like he’s floating, his whole life turned upside down, and part of him resents Ray for having so enmeshed himself in Walter’s life that he feels like this in the first place. 

He snaps at the boys at the station more than usual, and they all just take it without comment, which pisses him off all the more, because at least an argument would take his mind off of things.

  
At five weeks, Crow Horse has a routine again. 

  
He gets up before dawn to let Jimmy out, he goes to the station and doesn’t leave until he’s dead on his feet with exhaustion.  He comes home and, sometimes, drinks a little too much.  He watches the game, if it’s on, and he goes to bed.  He’s stopped kicking Jimmy out of Ray’s spot, because, truth be told, it’s nice to have a warm body lying next to him again, even if it’s furry and smells like dog.  He writes letters to Ray in a fit of sentimentality, but they’re never sent because Crow Horse obviously has no idea where to send them to.

Six weeks in, Walter breaks and goes to Grampa Reaches’ under the guise of bringing the old man some groceries.  He doesn’t say anything when Walter shows up on his porch, just beckons him in, and Walter thinks his eyes look sad- Grampa just sits back down on his couch that might be older than Walter, and they watch I Love Lucy together on the TV that Ray brought with him when he came back to the rez. 

He doesn’t zone out, exactly, but the lyrical cadence of Grampa’s Lakota wraps around him like a blanket, like home.  Walter doesn’t have to say that he’s worried about Ray, that he misses him, that he feels like he’s in flux without him.  Then again, no one ever has to say anything to Grampa; Grampa already knows.  “Buck up, _kola_ ,” the old man says, never turning his eyes away from the flickering screen, “He comes from brave people.  But he’ll need you when he gets back, to ground him, bring him back to himself, remind him who he is and where he belongs.” 

  
The knot Walter’s been carrying in his belly loosens, because Grampa says “when” not “if”. 

  
He knows Ray is competent, really, he does, but Walter is used to seeing the man with bed-head, padding around the house in a pair of pants and no socks because he isn’t quite human before he’s had a cup of coffee, nagging Walter about eating healthier and exercising more, like an old woman, not Mr. Big Deal FBI.  Or he's needling him to let Ray use some of his savings to buy them a washing machine.  Despite the conviction rate on the cases he’s worked, despite the fact that Ray’s never been made yet, according to his file, Crow Horse is scared as hell that Ray won’t make it back to him.  Sometimes he wakes, sweat cold on his skin, a shout dying in his throat, the images of a broken and bloodied Ray still flashing behind his eyes.

  
It’s a Wednesday night (or, technically, a Thursday morning), the middle of the seventh week, when Walter’s phone rings.

  
He’s on his feet and in the living room by the second trill, gripping the phone with a white-knuckled hand, and yanking it off the cradle.

“Hello?” 

“Hey, Walter.”

Ray’s voice is raw and nervy, and Walter’s never heard a sound so beautiful in his whole life.  He sags to the couch, legs unable to hold him up anymore.

“Jesus Christ, _Ray,_ ” He chokes out, and he can hear Ray breathing on the other end of the line, can hear the anonymous sounds of the city, fuzzy and without complete form, “God, it’s good to hear you.  How are you, _kola_?”

Ray doesn’t say anything, and the moment is long, it seems to stretch out forever, until-

“I’m holding up.  Miss you.  How’s Jimmy?”

The first real smile since Ray’s departure spreads over Crow Horse’s face, and he rambles for a good five minutes about Jimmy, about the drunk and disorderly he broke up, about the domestic at the Two Bulls place that turned out to be just a bout of loud sex, and then a thought strikes him hard-

“Is it safe to be callin’ me, Ray?  Deep cover, no contact, enit?”

He can hear the wry grin in Ray’s voice.  “It’s fine.  Calling from a pay phone on the other side of-” he stops short, and Walter can tell he’s struggling not to give anything away, “Anyway, it’s fine.  Can’t make a habit of it, but the benefits outweigh the risks.”

Walter relaxes and tries not to hear the bitter, raw, exhausted edge of Ray’s voice.  They talk for an hour, and Walter falls asleep on the couch, phone pressed to his ear, listening to the even tempo of Ray’s breathing.

Six weeks after the phone call, Walter’s sitting on the couch, eating lukewarm chef boyardee out of a can because the microwave’s on the fritz again when there’s a knock on the door.  It's almost hesitant, soft and rhythmic and familiar- Walter’s on his feet like he’s been spring loaded, knocking his dinner to the floor, and he yanks open the door-

And there’s Ray.  He's a good 25 pound thinner, his hair shaggy and dyed dark, face gone angular and a few new lines around his eyes, clad in uncharacteristically ripped jeans and a tight black t-shirt, and Walter doesn’t even speak, he just pulls Ray into his arms and kisses that plush mouth deep, letting his body convey what he doesn’t trust his voice enough to speak.  Ray sags against him, and Walter takes his weight without even thinking about it, murmurs nonsense in his ear in a long stream of Lakota and English, the two languages melding together the same way Ray’s body melds to his- unexpected and perfect.

When he finally lets go, Ray is smiling through his exhaustion, and some of the blankness has left his eyes.  Crow Horse doesn’t immediately notice the way Ray lingers, standing awkward like this isn’t his house too, because he’s finally home, and Walter find himself touching him absently like he’s not quite sure he’s really there.

“Gonna have to fatten you up, _kola,_ ” he murmurs against his ear, because the man is downright scrawny and it’s even more obvious with Ray held against him, all wiry and taut like a bag of chicken bones.

Ray just burrows himself in Crow Horse’s arms again, dipping his head to nuzzle against his neck, and all Walter can think is _‘You’re here, you’re back, you're **home** ’.  _

Ray sleeps fourteen hours straight that first night, sleeps heavy, sleeps gone, wrapped tight around Walter like an old habit. 

Crow Horse calls in a sick day, because Ray needs to rest and he doesn’t want to leave him, lest he disappear again, which he knows in his head won’t happen, but his heart hasn’t quite caught up yet.  He just knows he doesn’t want to be away from him, even for a few hours, because it’s been too damn long and what if Ray needs him? 

Grampa Reaches’ words rise up, unbidden.  _‘He’ll need you when he gets back, to ground him, bring him back to himself, remind him who he is and where he belongs.’_

Walter takes one last look at the man curled up in his bed, the familiar planes of his face, relaxed and still in sleep, the muted gold rays of sunlight playing off of his too-pale skin, and Crow Horse notices with a sick pang the greenish-yellow of a half healed bruise around his right eye.  His hand traces Ray’s jaw, brief and light, then he rises, slow so as not to disturb Ray, and makes his way into the kitchen.  Ray needs to eat, after all. 

  
He makes a couple of omelets by rote, puts on the coffee.  Over the crackling of browning bacon, he hears Ray shuffle into the room- Walter turns around with one last poke at the bacon, and watches his progress- he’s wearing one of Walter’s t-shirts, which makes something like pleased satisfaction bloom in Walter’s gut.  He rubs his eyes, wincing minutely as he’s a little overzealous with the healing bruise, a jaw-popping yawn giving Walter an amusing view of the back of his throat, and drops into a chair across from Crow Horse, watching him silently. 

“Omelet sound good?” 

Ray nods, smiling a little, like he hadn’t realized he was hungry until just now.  “Sounds great, actually.”

Crow Horse cooks and Ray watches, and the silence is both companionable and a little weird, because it seems like Ray hasn’t quite figured out how he fits back into his own life yet. 

“So, how’d ya get that shiner?” Walter’s voice is even, and he doesn’t look too close at Ray as he sets a heaping, steaming plate of eggs and bacon before him, sliding the coffee along with it.  Ray tilts his head, thinking, and Crow Horse doesn’t want to rush him, so he busies himself fixing his own plate.  Ray doesn’t speak until Walter’s sitting down across from him, their socked toes touching under the small table.  Finally he shrugs, nursing the mug to warm his hands. 

“It was a drug ring.  What we were investigating.  Had some ties to organized crime.  Had to get a sample back to Quantico, so I nicked some and made it obvious.  Not a lot, maybe 80 bucks worth, enough for the boys to know something was missing and to give the lab something to work with.” he says it casual, like he’s talking about a routine traffic stop, and Walter’s jaw drops.

“You stole drugs from the _mafia,_ Ray? What the fuck?” his voice has gone up in pitch and it sounds horrified even to him, “Don’t they _kill_ people for that kinda shit?"

Ray just shrugs again.  “Nah.  They won’t kill you over 80 bucks.  Happens pretty often.  They just, you know…” he trails off, tongue pushing against his cheek, “Make sure you know not to do it again.”  he snickers quietly at his own understatement, gallows humor.  Walter stabs viciously at his omelet. 

“Seems like a pretty big risk, _kola._ ”

Ray fiddles with his fork, then looks up, pinning Crow Horse with a laser-like focus that he’s heard of but never seen from this angle.  “A dealer who gets high off of his own stash is vulnerable.  There’s something to hold over his head.  I had to give them something to... minimize the threat.” 

Crow Horse just looks at him.  Ray finally takes a bite, chews slowly, swallows.  “I’m good at my job, Walter.” he says, firm, “Trust me.”

Walter’s expression softens, and he puts a hand on Ray’s knee, under the table.  “Shit, Ray.  That’s not what I meant, it’s just…”

Ray’s eyebrow quirks.  “You still see me as the hothead with his knee in your back.  The kid who didn’t know his own people and presumed to come in here like the fucking cavalry without even _wanting_ to know.  The guy who didn’t know about the tobacco and traded his Ray-Bans for a rock.” Ray’s eyes are shrewd, and there’s not much bitterness in his voice- he sounds disconnected, like he’s talking about someone else, and this side of him is _weird._

Walter’s mouth works for a second, silently, and then he deflates. 

“Maybe.  Sorry, Ray _._ ”

Ray inclines his head, slightly, and sips at his coffee.  Crow Horse clears his throat.  “Eat up, boy.  I don’t like you bony.”  Then he leans over and kisses him, relishing the taste of him, his Ray, finally fucking home again, and when he pulls back, Ray looks like a deer in the headlights, but he’s smiling a real smile, and he looks almost like himself.  He shoves piece of bacon into his mouth, quickly, and Walter grins.

Ray’s gonna be just fine.


	2. Chapter 2

Ray doesn’t say too much else the rest of breakfast.  

He’s too busy re-memorizing the way everything smells and feels- absorbing the the rhythm of Walter’s voice, Jimmy’s fur under his palm, scratch of the faded old t-shirt against his skin, the slick lacquer and cracked yellow plastic of the kitchen table- he takes it all in and holds it there, like he’s trying to store home up inside him for later.

Crow Horse notices, and he rattles on like an old diesel engine, talking about nothing, keeping a close eye on the tenseness of Ray’s mouth, the set of his shoulders.  Eventually, lulled by the food and Walter’s stories, he begins to relax, the grooves bracketing his mouth soften, his nose wrinkling as he laughs, and, god, it feels like it’s been half a lifetime rather than half a year. 

Walter nudges Ray’s foot with his own, mouth quirking up as he waggles his eyebrows.  “So… What should we do on our day off, sweetheart?” his tone is teasing, and usually Ray would flush and his lips would curl in a way that promised Walter dear retribution for his cheek.

This time-

Ray’s ears go a little red, but it’s a nervous sort of blush, his shoulders tauten again, and Walter feels the sting of rejection like ice water, his skin tight and hot, itching with embarrassment, and he grabs Ray’s plate and his own, turning to the sink quickly, not wanting Ray to see, because Ray doesn’t need that right now, doesn’t need to be pressured- he’ll wait until Ray’s ready, because it has to be hard for him, has to be a shock-

Ray’s arms wrap around him from behind and he rests his cheek against Crow Horse’s head.  Their breathing syncs up. 

“ ‘S not what I meant, Walter.” he murmurs, hesitant, because Ray hates talking about sex, it mortifies him- “I… w-want you.  I want you, _god_ , so much, I just… I need to be me again first, okay?” his voice gets stronger as he continues, and Walter can hear the blush in his voice- he turns in Ray’s arms, his back toward the counter and Ray pressed to his front, and searches Ray’s face, thumb rubbing across Ray’s cheekbone.  

“’S okay, hoss.  I ain’t no hard-on in the back of a car, it can wait.”   And he means it.

Ray bends and kisses him, hand tangling in Walter’s hair, and there’s a desperate heat there Walter’s never felt before- Ray nips at his lower lip, hard enough that he tastes copper, insistent, hand tightening in his hair, and Crow Horse moans low in his chest; Ray’s not usually rough like this, but he can’t say it’s entirely unwelcome- except he’s pushing himself back, and he’s shaking, arms closing around his own torso, face twisted in disgust.  “Shit- _shit_ , Walter, I’m sorry- goddamn, I didn’t mean to- _fuck_ -”

Crow Horse just blinks-  “The hell you talking about, Ray?  Just a little blood, no big deal.” he draws a finger across his lip and it comes up clean, bleeding already stopped, and he holds it up to illustrate his point, but every single one of Ray’s muscles are like overdrawn bow-strings, tight enough to shatter, corded tendons standing out in his neck.  Walter holds his hands palm up as he approaches, and Ray’s mouth is working overtime, trying to shape his emotions into proper words by sheer force of will and physical movement.  

“No.  Fuck, you don’t understand…” he grinds the words out, “I’m not- I need to- _Jesus_ , I sound fucking nuts… I’m not- I’m still _him_ , I feel like I’m _\- Walter_ -” he’s almost pleading, the way he says the name, offered up like a prayer-

Crow Horse shakes his head.  “Nah, _kola,_ not nuts.  You just sound like somebody who’s spent near half a year livin’ as someone else, that’s all.” It’s simple, at least to him, at least for now.  

Not-Ray’s Jaw clenches, and Crow Horse reaches out to him, rests his hand on the back of his neck to tether him, remind him where he belongs.  

They stare at each other for a long minute, the feral snared-fox panic slowly draining from Ray’s eyes.  An idea hits him.

“What’s that hair dye you got in, permanent?”

Ray blinks at the non-sequitur. “Semi.”

Crow horse grins at him.  

“I got somethin’ that might help.  Why don’t you go grab a shower?  Just come back out when you’re done.”  

Ray tilts his head, contemplating, then seems to decide it couldn’t _hurt_ , and shrugs one shoulder, draining the rest of his coffee.  

The pipes creak and stutter as Ray turns on the shower, and Crow Horse busies himself by grabbing a bottle of shampoo and the baking soda from the cabinet, mixing them together in a bowl until they’ve formed a milky white paste, setting it on the table.  A pair of scissors, a comb, and an old towel join them, then there’s nothing left to do but wait.

By the time Ray finally re-emerges, the hot water long-since run out, hair plastered to his forehead and sending rivulets down his spine, a towel slung low about his hips, Walter’s on his third cup of coffee, knee bouncing with unusual nervous energy.  The sun shines, brilliant, into the kitchen, and it’s unmerciful, because it shows Walter just how much of an understatement _“They just make sure you know not to do it again”_ really was.  

There’s a nasty looking gash healing above Ray’s right hip, pulled together by inexpert stitches, and his abdomen is yellow-brown mess of fading bruises.  Ray’s ribs and pelvis jut out, his whip-cord muscles flexing too close to the surface- he looks like a man burned down to rawness, all but the barest essentials stripped away. 

Ray clears his throat, one hand massaging the back of his neck awkwardly, and Crow Horse realizes that he’s staring.  He blinks and throws Ray a grin that’s not quite genuine, almost an apology.  “Lookin’ like a half starved dog, _kola_.  Gonna have to make sure Gramma doesn’t see- she’ll have my ass for neglecting you.  C’mere.”

Ray snorts, rolling his eyes, but obeys and perches on the table in front of him, knees fitting neatly between Walter’s.  A shower’s done him good- his skin is pink, like he’s scrubbed it too hard under too-hot water, which would worry Walter a little if he let it, but he doesn’t, he’s just grateful that Ray’s shoulders aren’t parallel with his ears from tension anymore.  

“Close your eyes.”

Something flashes across Ray’s face, but it’s brief and Walter’s hands are firm on his shoulders, so he acquiesces with little hesitation.  “What are you doing?” he murmurs, squinting at Crow Horse through the slit of one half-shut eyelid, and he laughs.

“What, don’t trust me, Raymond?”  Walter stretches his name out with lazy amusement.

Ray’s mouth twists; he doesn’t respond for a long second.  Crow Horse opens his mouth to say… something, but then that pretty mouth moves again, quick as a shot- “Not where my hair’s concerned, no.”

That’s his Ray.  

A laugh shakes Walter’s chest.  He takes a glob of the paste in his hand and begins working it through Ray’s hair, scrubbing firm but gentle, and Ray’s face goes slack as he leans into Walter’s hands, a satisfied smile touching his lips.  Crow Horse finds himself wondering if Ray had touched anyone- other than getting what looks like steel toed boots to the ribs- all the time he’d been gone.  The thought makes his throat feel tight.  Ray would never admit it to anyone, not even Walter, (he thinks it makes him weak or some FBI machismo bullshit) but he craves physical affection, needs it like food or water, and thinking about it keeps his hands on Ray’s scalp long after the paste has begun to turn a muddy pale brown.  

“What is this stuff, anyway?” Ray asks, grabbing the bowl and sniffing it curiously.  

“Eh, just baking soda and shampoo.  Takes out hair dye pretty good, long as it’s not permanent.”

Ray gives him an amused, curious look.  “Which you know because…?”

Walter grins.  “Had cousins, hoss.  One of em, couple a years younger than me, she was half, right?” Ray nods, and so he continues, “So she’s got this sorta dirty blonde hair, a little darker than yours, and she’s tired of it.  Goes up to Rapid City with some friends, buys a box of hair dye, this dark red-brown color-” he pauses, wiping a smudge of the paste off of Ray’s eyebrow.  “It was a real nice color.  On the box.” a slow grin begins to work its way across Ray’s face; he sees where this is going, “So she follows all the instructions, washes out the dye, and… her hair is the prettiest shade of violet you ever saw.”

Ray laughs, harder than Crow Horse’s story probably merited, shuddering with it- it’s infectious, Walter’s grinning too as he grabs Ray’s hand and pulls him to his feet.  “C’mon, go stick your head in the sink.” Ray’s still giggling, and Walter swats lightly at his toweled behind as he follows.  Ray’s marathon shower had run out all the hot water, but he sticks his head under the faucet without hesitation anyway, and Walter stands behind him, rubbing the gloopy mixture out of his hair and trying to ignore the wave of want he feels Ray all pressed up against him like this.  He starts reciting baseball statistics in his head, and looks anywhere but at the dimples on Ray’s lower back, just above the towel, until the water runs clear.   

Ray straightens, shivering as cold water snakes down his neck, down the dark gold of his chest hair, giving him the same sort of pathetically uncomfortable look Jimmy does whenever Crow Horse hoses him down because he’s been rolling in the mud again, or doing whatever the hell it is he does to get so damn dirty.  He snorts and throws the towel at Ray’s head, maneuvering him back into the chair, and begins combing through the damp strands, still miles away from Ray’s usual blonde, but no longer that near-black brown that reminds Walter of bruises.  He picks up the scissors.

Ray’s a 20 dollar haircut kind of man.  Walter pokes at him mercilessly for it, one of the few manifestations of vanity Ray will allow. 

If he’s nervous about Walter taking scissors to him now, though, he’s not saying anything, and it’s a mark of just how desperately Ray wants to feel like _Ray_ again that he doesn’t so much as flinch when the first lock falls.  They sit like that, silent, Walter cutting off the physical evidence of the months he’s been gone with as much care as he knows how; almost ritualistic, almost reverent.  

“So what happened?” Ray murmurs, quiet and touched with roughness.

“Eh?”

“With your cousin.  So she accidentally dyes her hair purple, then what?”  

Walter snorts, remembering.  “Well, first I should mention, she wasn’t supposed to do it in the first place.  Her dad was real strict about that kind of thing.  So she comes to me, panicking, and begs me to do somethin’.  Now, I was maybe nineteen at the time, and shit like that has never been my forte, if you know what I mean.  So I took her to ma.  Soon as she stopped laughing, she fixed her right up.  Her hair was tinged lavender for a month.  Her dad never noticed, don’t ask me how.”

Ray smiles again.  “My first case, the first one I went undercover on, we were investigating these white-power, neo-nazi fuckhead types.  Real nasty case; a group of ‘em raped and killed a couple of girls, young ones.” he pauses, a vicious scowl crossing his face like a thundercloud, then it’s gone,  “We had enough for a conviction on that, the three guys who did it, but the upper echelon covered it up, and we wanted proof enough to get them too.  We did, by the way.” Walter’s standing in front of him now, working his way forward, and he doesn’t miss the obsidian smirk or the way Ray’s hand clenches- he can suddenly imagine him as a one-man reckoning.  Then Ray blinks, shaking his head clear of whatever darkness that lingered.   
“Anyway, the brass decided I looked young and… aryan enough, I guess, to get in there without too much problem.  Being the smart _kola_ I am, I figured I’d get my girlfriend to cut and dye it, since she was in beauty school and all.”  Ray’s mouth twitched.  “Ended up with hair like what’s his name… Billy Idol.  Not a good look.”

Walter listens to him without speaking, though he hums encouragingly at all the right places, because he’s not really thinking about hair disasters anymore, he’s thinking about all these new pieces Ray is giving him and trying to figure out how they fit together.  He realizes suddenly that Ray hasn’t really talked about his career before Walter knew him up ‘til now.  

When he asks Ray why, he just fixes him with those pale eyes.   “Didn’t seem relevant.  You had my file.”

Sure, but Ray’s file is just black and what, no detail, like sports statistics.  

“What’d you have to do to get rid of him?”

Ray’s smile is a little wry.  “The neo-nazi?”

Walter nods.

“Lock myself in my apartment for a few weeks, decompress.  Not see anyone.  Punch some walls.  Sleep too much.”  he says it blunt, not shying away from what might be dysfunction, but what does Walter know, he’s never had to lose himself like that- “He was a nasty fuck, Walter.  I was scared I might lose my temper and… hurt someone before I got him all the way out.”

Walter huffs a little laugh even though it’s not funny, using the towel to brush the fallen hair from Ray’s neck and shoulders.  “Eyah.  Well, if you’re planning on punching any walls, punch the one in the bathroom.  I hate that wallpaper.”

Relief so potent he thinks he might drown in it settles over Ray like a shroud, and Walter can't resist pressing a long kiss to his forehead, like a benediction-

Crow Horse holds a mirror in front of Ray, and even though it’s uneven in places, too dark, and the part is all screwy, Ray stands and wraps his arms around him, face tucked into Walter’s neck.  

“Thanks.”

Walter just holds him, tight, because Ray’s safe, he’s back, he’s _home-_

And Ray’s gonna be just fine.


End file.
